“You have no need for apologies. She put the scars on my skin and the wounds in my heart, not you.” Óraithe’s voice was devoid of emotion. “I will see her writhe if I find her.”
“Then we agree.”
Óraithe nodded and Scaa continued.
“They looked to me for things after only a few weeks. And I helped them. Even when the disappearances began, they looked to me. Not just to think for them but to blame for the ills of their daily lives. They became distrustful of those who came to the camp anew, but I forced them to take in any who wished to stay.”
The idea was near farcical to Óraithe, but she would have been blind to ignore the nature of others.
Scaa continued. “I decided we could no longer stay in our camp. It had become too large and whether it was horsefolk or the city guard or patrols or bandits, we were suffering for it. So I took the people and we marched to this place with the idea it had been abandoned.”
A quiet came and the sound of the water was all there was to hear. Scaa stood and offered her hand to Óraithe.
“Come. See what we have made.”
Óraithe took her hand and came to her feet. She was led back to the street by Scaa who spoke as they walked, pointing to things and explaining the time they had spent patching them, making them livable.
“Much of it was beyond salvage and there are several families to a house in some places, but they have chosen what suits them.”
Scaa’s raspy voice made the walk something comfortable and welcome. Óraithe let herself fall away in it, taking in what she could and simply trying to let the sound of a familiar, beloved voice soak deep into her mind.
They were nearing the square when Óraithe remembered the face of Bonn, simple and innocent as he was.
“Bonn is not with you?”
Scaa stopped and looked at the ground. It was a stupid question, one Óraithe could have assumed the answer to.
“He is not.” Scaa kicked at the dirt. “He was taken. I did not see it but he was hanged. One who came to us late described him perfectly. In fact, she said it is what drove her from the city. To hang such a child, she said… Briste must truly have gone mad.”
“I am sorry, Scaa.”
She shook her head at the apology. “I would have saved him from her if I could. Saved you both. But this is what we chose. We must stare at our horrors straight and accept that we welcomed them in.”
Óraithe sighed. “We saw things so very differently then. Before, in that tiny room. You had the right of it then. And I lived in a child’s fantasy.”
“A naive little twat.” Scaa laughed her scratchy, ragged laugh and Óraithe could not help but join her.
The pain forced her to stop herself, but it was only a bit better holding back. “I was. Am still, I’m sure.”
“Then it’s good you have me to tell you what you’ve got wrong.”
“It is.” Óraithe nudged Scaa. “Vital, in fact.”
Scaa trotted out in front of her. “There’s still much more to see. And you will need to see all of it.”
The small town sprawled out from the square in three directions, including the one from which they’d approached. Scaa pointed to the healer’s, the blacksmith, and several seamstresses. She walked Óraithe down the street that led away from the water. A few homes had dim lights in them, but a large building toward the end of the street spilled light out more brightly than the others.
“Our stables.” Scaa grinned wide and proud.
A pair of men came walking out from the wide open door. The first of the two was dark-haired, broad, and tall. He turned a horseshoe over in his hands inspecting it. Beside him was a fair man, not quite so tall, clean-shaven, with blonde hair and the most elegant features Óraithe could remember seeing on an elf for some time.
Scaa called out to them. “Callaire, Borr!”
“Scaa? Up late again? Maith’ll have your ear off if she hears.”
“Then she best not hear. And if she does, I’ll know full well where she did.”
The men laughed and came close. Scaa introduced them. The blonde was Borr and he saw to the stables. Callaire, the taller, was their blacksmith. He’d apprenticed in making just about anything that could be wrought from metal and he did the work well.
The men bowed deeply after they’d been introduced.
“We owe you,” Callaire said, his face pointed at the ground. “Without so much as knowin’ it, you sacrificed for us. We’ll do you proud.”
Óraithe was confused. “I… do not…” She looked to Scaa who began to shoo the men away.
“She’s been awake less than a day. She doesn’t need to be bowed at by strange men.”
The men looked at each other and laughed.
“Only payin’ respects,” Borr offered before turning. He grabbed Callaire by the sleeve and pulled him along. “Trust we’ll see you come the morning anyway.”
“You will,” Scaa confirmed. “Both of us.”
When the men had gone Óraithe looked at Scaa, waiting.
“I…” The square-faced girl hesitated. “The stories have become something rather curious.” She laughed awkwardly. “I have done what I can to temper expectation, but then you came walking from the White Wastes like Fásach come to life or some damned thing.”
“What is it you’re saying?”
“They… the people think you are special.”
“Special?”
“Putting it lightly, yes.”
Óraithe could not be sure if the news would be trouble or something else entirely. She could not begin to imagine faces looking to her and thinking of her as anything but a half-dead girl run ragged by her own mistakes. Still, there was use in them if what Scaa said was true. The comfort Scaa took in talking to the two men sat ill with her somehow. It may have been just jealousy, but it nagged at
